Dancing With Angel
by Shakespeare's Girl
Summary: Spike wants to learn how to dance. Angel reluctantly agrees to teach him.


**Dancing With Angel**

**By Shakespeare's Girl**

"Come on, Nancy-boy. I bet you know how!"

"Spike," Angel half growled, half sighed, then covered his eyes with a hand as he leaned over his desk, desperately hoping that Huxley vs. Dickens would distract him until the younger, more enthusiastic, and strangely insistent vampire left. It didn't.

"Please, Angel?"

Angel looked up to find Spike pouting. "Damn it, Spike, I don't have time--"

"Just one lesson!"

Angel looked back down, signed the case documents without reading them, hoping he wasn't signing off on some poor mortal losing their soul, and pushed the legal briefs to one side. "I'm sorry, I was trying to ignore you, so I missed the part of the conversation where you actually told me what you wanted. Or maybe we didn't have that part yet," Angel frowned, considering.

"I want you to teach me to dance!"

Angel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You want me to teach you to dance?"

Spike slumped into the chair Harmony had moved in front of his desk. "Yeah."

"Spike, you of all people should know I can't dance worth shit."

"Oh, not this modern crap, hell no. But I didn't mean that."

"Then what, precisely, did you mean?"

Spike shifted uncomfortably, and Angel wondered just how badly he wanted to learn how to dance if he was asking Angel. Angel had a feeling he knew where this was going, and Spike had to know there was no way Angel was going to make it easy for him.

"I . . . I want to learn to tango. Or maybe rhumba. I don't know. Something with hips involved." Spike shifted his weight again, wiggling around like a landed catfish. Angel wondered if ritalin would make things worse or better for an ADD vampire.

"Okay, you want to learn to latin?"

"Huh?"

"Latin, as in latin dances, as in tangos, rhumbas, cha-chas, etc? It's slang . . . oh never mind. The point is, you just asked me to teach you how to tango."

"Yeah. Saw you once. You were bloody brilliant, mate."

Angel frowned. He didn't tango in public, so how had Spike . . . then it dawned on him. "You followed me to that club, didn't you?" Angel crossed his arms, waiting for the reply, then interrupted Spike. "Never mind that. You _watched_ me dance. Willingly."

"Wanted to know what you did when you went out after work. Didn't know you went to clubs and danced with hot Mexican chicks." Spike sounded pouty. That was interesting.

"Sofia is Italian, and you sound jealous," Angel prodded.

"Not jealous, just . . . bemused."

"Oh, bemused. Right." Angel leaned back and thought about it. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, I'll teach you."

"Really?" Spike perked up.

"Yes, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"Never follow me again."

"Fine."

"I don't believe you."

"I'll never follow you again, git, is that believable enough?"

Angel quirked an eyebrow, and cocked his head, but nodded. "No, but it'll do for now." Angel came out from behind his desk. "When are we supposed to start this?"

"Uh . . ."

"Fine, we'll do it now. Stand up, and take off your coat and that button down shirt." Angel took off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch, then stood in the center of the room. "Come here and close your eyes."

Spike came, wary and with his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

"Stop slouching," Angel admonished, his own posture the picture of perfect. "Uncross your arms, you'll never get anywhere all hunched over like that. Stand up straight."

Reluctantly, Spike uncrossed his arms. Angel reached out and straightened him the rest of the way. "Honestly," he rolled his eyes at Spike's indignant shriek. "You asked to be taught to dance, I'm teaching you. You'd think I'd burned you with flaming hot pokers."

"No, that's my line," Spike muttered.

"Now, stay straight. Dance is all about trust, especially the sensual dances, like the tango. Count the tango one-two-three-and-four. Slow, slow, quick quick, slow. For now, you always start on your right. When I switch you over to dancing the male part, you'll always start on your left."

"Hey! I'm dancing the girl's part?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Spike complained.

"Because, until you learn to follow, you cannot learn to lead."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Spike asked testily.

"It means since you're learning, you dance what I tell you, when I tell you."

"Fuck you."

"Give me your right hand," Angel instructed. Spike slowly held out his right hand. Angel took it, twisted it up and around and into his own, and yanked Spike close, one of Angel's legs parting Spike's and Angel's other hand landing just below Spike's shoulder blade.

"Hey!"

"Calm down. This is dance position, or it will be, when you put your hand on my shoulder. A little lower. Perfect. Stay there. Close your eyes."

Spike did as told, although he was more than nervous about closing his eyes with Angel right there and about to do hell knew what.

Angel leaned in close, whispering in Spike's ear. "Now don't think, don't dance, don't move. Just feel. Feel the way you're positioned, where your hands are, where your feet are, how my body feels in relation to yours. Where we touch and where we don't. Feel how much control you have, how much I have. Feel everything."

Spike was panting by this point. Angel's hot breath in his ear, added to being mere inches from Angel, with his legs spread by one of Angel's . . . it was slight sensory overload. Angel had to know that.

"Do you feel that?" Angel asked, his mouth much closer to Spike's ear than remembered. "The way your body feels more alive than it ever has before? The way it's a turn on and a forbidden pleasure to be this close to another person? Feel how illicit and yet innocent this is?" Spike nodded, wondering what the point of this was, other than to make a fool out of him. "Good. Stay here, and keep your eyes closed."

Angel let go of him, moved away, and Spike might have thought he'd left the room if he hadn't been able to hear the rustling of Angel's clothes. Angel had looked so sexy, so business like and yet absolutely lickable in just a shirt and tie, the suit coat that matched his pants discarded. He called up the mental picture of Angel, in that strange combination of formal-casual that had always made Spike sit up and take notice a little more than he liked to admit.

Spike heard a soft click, and then Angel was back, pressing a tiny bit closer than before. "Don't worry about the steps just yet. Follow my lead. If I'm going to do something tricky, I'll explain step by step as we go."

The music started, and it was something pulsing and latin and sexual. Angel's lips brushed Spike's ear as he whispered his final instruction, "Don't say anything, and don't think. And only move if you _feel_ it."

Angel dropped the hand holding Spike's, then ran his fingers down Spike's arm and took it again. Somehow, in the same instant, the hand on Spike's back pulled him up taller and twisted him with Angel as he moved his torso to the side. A few beats later they were back in dance position, Spike knowing that if his heart could beat, it would be pounding. Very slowly, Angel began walking them backward, taking two beats for every step.

As they sped up to tempo, Angel whispered, "I'm going to spin you out. Spin back in to me on your left foot, lift your right like a flamingo when you start to lean."

Sure enough, Spike found himself flying out in a spin, then whirled back in, his weight falling naturally on his left foot. Angel must have taken a step back, because Spike had farther to go, and sure enough, he began to lean. When he did, he picked up his right foot, like Angel had instructed, and leaned trustingly forward. _I can't believe I'm doing this_, Spike thought, but then he was leaning against Angel's side, completely supported by the slant of Angel's body, and then in the next instant, he was spun around again and then pulled back to dance position. They did a set of walking steps, in the pattern Angel had indicated before, then they were spinning again.

Spike wasn't sure how it happened, but he suddenly found himself half kneeling half squatting, Angel's hands on his shoulders, then underneath his arms, drawing him back up. They danced a few bars back to front, Spike considering opening his eyes at every second, but instinctively knowing that it would be a bad idea.

With a spin and a twirl, Angel's arms supported him in a dip that Spike hadn't even known was possible, his entire body arched, his arms over his head. When Angel raised him up again, they were back to dance position. Another few bars of music, and they were spinning again. Spike was surprised to realize that he understood the pressure on his back to mean "lift up your feet," and when he did, he was even more surprised to find himself swept up in a basket hold by Angel, still spinning. When he was released, he instinctively slid down Angel's body the direction Angel's arm indicated. He was spun around again, back to dance position, and then twisted and dipped.

They stayed that way, frozen, as the music faded out. Spike realized that both he and Angel were panting. He hung in Angel's arms, knowing it was bad etiquette to give your partner all your weight, but he couldn't help it. Spike's arms were still around Angel's neck, but they felt like jelly, and if he was completely honest, so did his entire body.

Slowly, Angel raised them back to an upright position. He heard a soft click, and whatever device had been playing the music turned itself off. Spike realized he still hadn't opened his eyes as he raised a hand to Angel's face. He could tell from the jaw muscles that Angel was staring at him intently, his eyes dark with questions and desire.

"Thank you," Spike breathed, not realizing until it was too late that Angel was moving toward him. It was a quick kiss, short, sweet, somehow resolving all the questions with a firm press of lips against lips. Angel pulled away and traced a thumb over Spike's lower lip.

"There," Angel breathed, stepping away. "I taught you to dance."


End file.
